


Nevada

by rhosyndu



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Incest, M/M, Old tumblr fic, Twincest, crack? it's gravity falls that's fair crack, graboids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 14:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosyndu/pseuds/rhosyndu
Summary: Ford drags Stan around the state of Nevada to look at monsters. Sorta. To look at and/or fight monsters that don't want to be looked at. Stan sort of enjoys himself. And his brother. Stancest.





	Nevada

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago on Tumblr (under the pseud Flowersforstan) for the Stan Twins Go To All 50 States thing that what never happened. The premise was, after investigating random nonsense in the Artic, the Stans travel all over the US and have adventures and Stan has a plan to fuck Ford in every state. Was supposed to be a massive collab but, like most massive colabs, didn’t get off the ground.

–

With the window wound down and the cigar hanging out the vehicle as a concession to the, ‘No Smoking in the Van’ rule, Stan took a draw, breathed deep, then blew the smoke in the vague direction of outside.

“The obvious money is on Area 51, but maybe that’s a little too obvious.”

The radio had decided it was broken again. I-spy had withered around about the state line (R is for Road… C is for Car… N is for Nerd brother…) and Stan was keeping himself amused with smoking and idle speculation.

Ford hummed and continued to chew the end of his pen. He had a notebook open in one palm, two guide books (for Hawaii and another for – Stan couldn’t really see, Papua New Guinea, maybe) in his lap, a lit tablet in one hand and another book on Astec rites tucked between his knees. Stan had agreed not to read over Ford’s shoulder when he was working so he couldn’t be sure what was being written, but he was reasonably confidant the notebook page had a picture of a mug and the words 'hot chocolate’ written on it.

“So then I was thinking maybe it’s those ancient pictowhatits, maybe you’re after more ancient symbolism.”

“Symbology.”

“Right, right, ancient cymbal biology.”

Ford gave Stan a look that said, _You aren’t going to wind me up with that._

Stan, looking rather less at the road than he ought to have been, replied with cocksure eyebrows that said, _Aren’t I?_ And then a grin that said: _And your pen has leaked into your mouth again._

Ford cursed and fumbled for a tissue to spit the ink into.

“While I would really enjoy seeing the Petroglyph’s in Mouse Tank,” Ford said, when he was done mopping at his face, “there haven’t been any reports of water babies in Pyramid Lake yet this year, which makes me suspect we may yet be in time for an attack.”

“Water babies. Huh,” said Stan. “Are they going to follow that trend of yours for, 'Cute name, horrifying face?’”

“They might not. You’re a gambling man, what odds would you give me?”

“About the same as me winning another beautiful baby competition.”

–

The sun had set almost an hour before, all the pinks and warmth trickling down with the Sun to leave them alone on the cool, still lake. The other fishing boats had long moored up as, after all, the fish were asleep and who’d want to stay out on the water after dark? The surface of Pyramid Lake shone in the dusk light, a sheet of dark glass on all sides of the tiny rental boat that held Stan and Ford.

Stan still revelled in it. There was something in the feeling of being alone with his brother that made his blood flow warmer. A good feeling, an old familiar one of being something small and defiant against the world – but now better, so much better, because now it came with the knowledge he had someone who had his back.

He looked at Ford while a smile pulled at his cheek. His brother, handsome even when he was frowning.

Their current attempts at luring a water baby close were not going well: no takers on the pheremone laced meat and only erratic results from the the underwater sensors. Ford had been intent on the sonar feed for some time now – something about mammals and fish being different was increasing the time it was taking to pin one down.

Stan let his eyes fall upwards, towards space. Nice night for a star gaze. They should grab a blanket or six and come out here again, bring a few beers and lie down together in the boat, Stan reckoned. Ford could pick out constellations, and he could make up his own. Maybe a little spot of canoodling? Always sounded like a making love in a boat term, 'canoodle’.

Plus, they had been too tired and busy to get up to anything that’d mark Nevada off on Stan’s map yet.

Eventually, Ford shifted in his seat, exhaled and stretched. “I guess we should start heading back,” he offered Stan a tired smile. “What data I can gather from reports indicates they’re at their most active in the dawn and at dusk, so we have probably missed our window for today.”

Stan gave him a loose shoulder pat and leant over to pull up the bait line. Ford disconnected the sensors and, once all that was finished and the equipment stowed to Ford’s satisfaction, Stan started up the outboard motor. It putt-putt-putted into life and they began back towards the shore.

Ford carried on musing quietly. “There’s really not much on how they choose their victims though; big boats, small boats, there’s no firm correlation. How do we make ourselves more appealing? The fishermen they take are all ages, no gender or ethicity correlation, so what’s the draw?”

“Maybe we should come back tomorrow with bait and tackle?”

“Stanley, be serious.”

“I am. If they’re normally grabbing fishermen out of their boats, then we gotta be more like fishermen. Gotta walk like a duck and quack a few times if you want to lure out a few duck hunters, right?”

“That’s – that’s a rather good idea,” Ford said slowly. “Yes. Yes, we’ll do that.”

“Plus we might get some fish out of the deal,” Stan’s grin was in his voice. “We get an early night, get up early and buy some lines and flies and get back on it as soon as. And if that doesn’t work, we skype the kids and ask Mabel if she still writes her mermaid boyfriend.”

Ford nodded. Then hummed. “Ah. Mermaid boyfriend?”

“He married a dugong or something.”

–

That night the van creaked and groaned gently, like the bones of tired old men settling to sleep around each other. Lips pressed to skin, stray hairs tickling nostrils, pillows wedged in for back support.

Ford might not be able to sleep without a gun under the bed but he found he slept just fine with Stan’s cheek pressed into his sternum.

–

Anyone drawing level with the open window of the Grunkle Van as it drove down 95 Route South would have heard the following conversation:

“So, given that we are right by Reno–”

“No.”

“Yeah, I expected that to be your answer, but how about we–”

“No.”

“And I get it, I’m fully on board with that but–”

“No.”

“A coupla games of Three Card Monte’ll–”

“No.”

“I’m a killer on the Blackjack–”

“No.”

“Though if we can get to a decent dice game–”

“No.”

“Any pictures they’ve got of me are probably out of date, so we should be able to just walk in–”

“No.”

“If we skip Reno we have to go to Vegas.”

“No.”

“You are no fun.”

“Yes.”

Though anyone drawing level for this length of time would probably also have heard a, “Is that the cops? Hand me the memory gun,” and then forgotten most of the exchange anyway.

–

“Do they know what the word 'lake’ means?” Having parked the van, Stan regarded Yucca Lake with a petulant 'I’m-missing-Vegas-for-this’ air.

The air con had shut off with the engine and almost immediately the sweat on Stan’s back had started to prick out. There were a good ten hours until sunset and, as it was nearly a hundred already and still climbing, Stan made a decision and pulled off his hawaiian shirt and threw it into the back of the van. “Won’t be needing that.” He tugged his tank flat.

“You’ll be needing this, then,” Ford tapped Stan on the arm with a bottle of sunscreen.

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll burn and complain all night.”

Grumbling, Stanley conceded. The lotion farted out of the bottle and into his palm, and he started to rub it awkwardly onto his shoulders and across the back of his neck. Ford watched him a second, affection dimpling his cheeks.

“The desert here has a significantly higher than average dose of radiation due to the testing back in the fifties,” Ford told him, leafing through his notes. “Between that, the readings the equipment’s been getting and humanity’s tendency to resort to extreme solutions, I believe we have a good cause to think that something may have been– may have been – quit it– I said, _quit it_ –” Ford pulled his head away as Stanley tried to repeatedly wipe a white blob of sunscreen onto his nose, “ ugh, _fine_ – may have been summoned out here and then developed further into something unanticipated.”

“What kind of something? Giant crawling horror? Tiny rat with a human face?”

Ford pushed open the van door and stepped out, Stan matching his brother. Small dust clouds stirred around their boots as they stepped out of the van and onto the cracked earth.

“Our creature appears to be Annaeliadian,” Ford produced an anomaly tracker from a coat pocket, “possibly something ressembling the Microchaetids – though the reports of mucal deposits and ever larger diameter tunnels do indicate some sort of alternating pupal and growth stages.”

“Mucal deposits?”

“We won’t find those unless we’re really lucky; we’re most likely to experience the fall out from their subterrainean tunneling – their movements are often mistaken for localised seismic activity.”

“Run all that again in English?”

“Giant worms making small earthquakes.”

“Gotcha. Shovel or shotgun?”

“Both. And the blaster. And possibly some dynamite.”

Once sufficiently armed, they walked across the uneven shrublands, going deeper into the desert until Ford judged them having come far enough.

Stan glanced around at the empty brown land surrounding from them, barren land under a cloudless sky, the van a small block in the distance.

Ford swung his pack down to the ground and knelt next to it. He pulled a small triangular box from the pack, clicked open the box’s metal lid, flicked two switches on and one off, and turned a key. A small whirr could be heard from inside, followed by a rising tone.

“That EMP’s not gonna scramble the blaster, is it?” asked Stan.

“No. Well. Probably no. There’s the possibility it could, but it’s not likely. Let’s find out.”

Ford pushed the red button and there was a small 'whoomph’ as the EMP fired.

Silence. It was surprising how many small sounds existed in the desert, small little rustlings in the scrub, insectoid clicks, whispers as the air stirred; small sounds that were not noticeable until they stopped.

“Those are gonna be our last words one day,” Stan said to fill the too-quiet. “Heh. Or maybe, 'Watch out!’”

More silence. And then–

A fine shudder ran under the earth, a growing shiver that turned into trembling firm enough that small pebbles started to vibrate where they lay.

“We should step back.”

They sprinted some fifty paces before the shaking became too much to keep running over. Stumbling, both Stan and Ford threw their hands wide and planted their feet as far apart as they could in an attempt to avoid being tipped flat on the ground.

The earth beneath the EMP device shattered open. A hideous stinking beast erupted out, bloated brown skin and wet black jaws, screeching, thrashing. It snatched the EMP generator up in its awful maw with a _crack_ and a shriek of tearing metal – and sank, just as quickly as it appeared.

“Oh! _Graboids!_ You shoulda said!”

“Grab-what?”

“These ugly tubes are graboids,” Stan said, cocking his rifle, scanning the ground for tell-tale furrows of movement. “Funny, I thought they were west of here.”

“It’s probably for the best if you leave the naming to me.”

“Isn’t it whoever sees 'em first gets to name them?”

“Only when they don’t call the discovery something ridiculous!” Ford jabbed at the tracker in his hand and cursed. “It’s too close for me to tell where it is!”

“I promise you, these have been seen before. And they’re called–”

The ground beneath their feet cracked and they only just managed to leap clear. The tracker flew from Ford’s fingers, lost. He managed to land on firm ground, roll and turned, weapon up.

On the other side of the creature he could see Stan do similar, aiming and loosing off a few shots, which seemed to have little effect on the beast. Ford scrambled back as the giant worm thrashed around, angered more than wounded, snapping its wet beak wildly. Red hissing tongues, thick and snake-like, spilled from its mouth.

Ford was mildly surprised to note each tongue had its own maw, full of jagged teeth. Hopefully there would be a chance to dissect.

“Hey! Kevin Bacon!”

Ford looked over at his brother, who had scrambled atop a rocky pile and was taking aim at the creature.

“One bit – or many little bits?”

He snapped off a shot, grazing the monster’s hide and causing it to screech and wheel around in his direction. It reared, coiling its body tighter, and lunged towards Stan. Too close, it was too close – Ford had his gun up and was squeezing the trigger when Stan ducked and jumped from the outcrop, darting towards and under the stinking monster. He fired upwards with the shotgun, the blast knocking it backwards enough that he could escape its immediate reach.

“Any day now, Sixer! I’m sure this thing can only kill me dead.”

“More intact is better! Both you and it.”

“Dynamite’s out then.” Stan loosed another volly, before rolling out of the way of a wild swing. “And shot’s just tickling it. Any ideas out of your nerd brain?”

“Its skin is pretty thick. I need a few wounds opened up!”

“Gotcha.” Before Ford could ask what Stan was planning, his brother had drawn the ghurka from his belt, crouched as the creature reared again – then dodged its lumbering strike and leapt onto the monster’s back, slamming the knife into the beast’s flesh, right to the hilt. It screamed and bucked with its whole body, tearing the wound wider as it tried to throw Stan off.

Later Ford would bury his face in his hands at ill thought out plans.

“Your breath is worse than my ex-wife’s!” Stan screamed at the thing; it screamed back. He had managed to land just below where the graboid’s body would normally bend, meaning no matter how it tried, it couldn’t quite flex enough to snap at where he hung on. He clutched with his legs and yanked on the knife, spraying his hands and arms and face with the graboid’s black blood.

Ford ramped up the charge on the tazer. The detacted, sensible part of him noted that an electro-conducting spray would be very useful in situations like this, and he would have to remember to invent one soon. The scholarly, fascinated-in-new-phenomena part was pleased to note the similarity in epithetial tissue to the common annaleids and was interested in the exoskeletal formations of the jaws and head, and wondered how could a beast of this size satisfy its oxygen demand without lungs? This was all very well, said the immediate, trying-not-to-panic part of him, but could they all focus together on holding the gun steady?

“That’s wide enough. Get off now!”

Stan shifted his grip and tried to slide down the creature’s body towards the ground– and the graboid snapped at him, red biting tongues coming close enough to rip at his boot leather. “Ugly mother!” he yanked his foot back and pulled himself higher, away from the reach of the tongues. “This looks less good. Can’t you take the shot now?”

“Not without cooking your central nervous system!”

“Remind me - do I use that often?”

“Stanley!”

The beast started to retract, drag itself back into the ground and away – Stan took his chance and leapt, landing rolling. Ford fired, probes making contact dead centre of the wound. 250,000 volts flowed from the gun, down the wires and into the graboid. It bucked. It screamed. It thrashed and tore at the earth and Ford stumbled, falling to one knee but keeping his finger down on the trigger, burning its nerves and sending spasms through whatever passed for a heart in the thing. He kept going, and going – and only stopped when the the sour, charcoal-fat smell of burning flesh filled his nose.

Ford released the trigger and listened to his hammering heartbeat, loud in his ears and slowing gradually back to normal.

“In the face you might not have!” Stan bellowed at the fallen corpse of the creature.

Of course, there were different ways of expressing post-fight relief.

Stan came to stand next to Ford and bumped him gently with one shoulder.

“You good? It’s, ah, it’s looking pretty dead.”

Ford smiled and clapped Stan’s shoulder, squeezing it firmly. “If my pack’s uncrushed, I’ll double check for vitals. Could you fetch the chainsaw from the van for me?”

Stan shrugged and started walking back over the desert to where they parked. “Next hotel room we get,” he called back over his shoulder, “I’m renting us Tremors.”

“Is that a porno flick?” Ford shouted back to him, grinning.

Stan muttered something disparaging that Ford didn’t quite catch. He smiled to himself, pulled out his notebook and started to sketch.

–

“But everyone gets married in Vegas! It’s traditional!”

“Stanley.”

“What? Five minute chapel, it’ll be classy. We’ll get one of the ones that’s staffed by an Elvis. Oh! For a change, I’ll even not get married under a fake name!” Stan beamed.

–

The gold ring didn’t deserve the appellation. It was barely 40%, if Ford was any judge. He could be a little more accurate in his estimate if he had ready access to some nitric acid, but just going on the firmness and colour and his brother’s light fingers: it was the cheapest that money didn’t buy.

Ford spun the band on his finger. It was not like he could really keep it on. Rings were a known hazard: it was highly probable they would get caught in things, like ropes, winches, eldritch horrors, and could pull a finger off if the wearer wasn’t careful. There was also the tendency of mercury to bind to gold on handling to consider, the attraction gold had for gnomes – and he would rather not get abducted by them again, please and thank you – that the nickel content of the ring would be small but may have enough of a magnetic effect to warp some of the magical wards he habitually used. All in all, rings were a terrible idea for their line of work.

Ford glanced sideways to where Stan was pressed up against him in the limo, glass of champagne in hand and still grinning like a cat with a mouthful of canary feathers.

He could keep it on until they were out of state.

–

Soft, scratchy kisses were pressed to the back of Ford’s neck as he unlocked the door to their room. (It wasn’t the honeymoon suite. Stan had forced a pout and Ford had pointed out that Mabel was his niece too and if he could resist her big sad eyes then Stan’s had no chance.)

“Wait a second,” he muttered.

One arm ignored him and curved around his waist, pulling his ass flush against Stan. “Hey, hey, the honeymoon’s the best part of the wedding.”

“Not in the corridor it isn’t!” There was, thankfully, no one else in it. Still. The desk clerk had seen both of them when they had booked in for a room with just one bed and may not have said anything with her mouth, but her face had displayed her thoughts perfectly well.

The door clicked open and they stumbled into the room. Now on the proper side of the door, Ford turned and dragged Stan back against him, kissing him fiercely, dragging Stan’s lower lip into Ford’s mouth and sucking it hard, laving it gently with his tongue. One hand grasped Stan’s hair, pushing it up the wrong way and letting the strands slip between Ford’s fingers; the other slid over Stan’s shoulders, Ford reveling in the shift of strong muscles and the hard edge of bone under skin.

Stan made a pleased noise deep in his chest and followed Ford’s lead, tongue sliding in, curling against Ford’s, tender and intent and wanting. Stan braced one arm against the door and ditched his glasses with the other, chucking them towards the nearest dresser.

(Stan always looked so wrecked when they kissed. He would frown, like now, grey brows drawn down, but rather than look angry it just made him look lost, confused, like he was amazed he got to be here, that he got to have this. If Ford thought too long on it he would feel guilty.)

Ford’s fingers skirted the edge of Stan’s jaw, stubble rasping softly under his callused fingertips, and caught Stan’s chin, pulled him back in to kiss Ford again, thin lips already red.

Ford tipped his hips, pushing his crotch against Stan’s thigh. He was halfway hard in his trousers, and Stan was much the same. “Is this the part where you call me Mr. Pines?” Ford murmured, then gave his eyelashes a flutter.

Stan pulled a face even as he laughed, then bit Ford’s ear none too gently, hot breath tickling over the sensitive skin. “God no, if you make me picture Pops it’s going to retract.” He kissed the tendon in Ford’s neck, once, twice, lips firm, nipping gently down over his naked throat.

“Is it really? You can be put off sex?”

“I’m a sensitive guy,” Stan looked at him then and the smile he gave ought to have been a leer but somehow was much too soft. Brown eyes dark and open. “Damn,” he murmured. “You’re gorgeous.”

Ford felt the blush in his cheeks and knew he ought to say something back. Something sweet and complementary. He cleared his throat. “We’ve paid for a bed. Might as well use it.”

They stripped quickly, shirts shed with jackets, underwear and pants thudding to the floor with their belts, and crashed into the mattress, one after the other.

White cotton sheets smooth under them, Ford slipped down his brother, catching one hairy leg and drawing it up, and then kissed the tender inside of his knee, tasted salt and skin and kissed higher, laved the skin and kissed higher and kissed higher and _stopped_.

Stan exhaled heavily. “Cocktease.”

Ford used his teeth, just a little, as a reply.

“That’s good. Do it again.”

Ford did, cheek now bumping up against Stan’s balls.

Stan tried to say something but only managed a noise like a creak. One of his thick palms curled over the back of Ford’s neck, warm and heavy and solid, not pulling or pushing, just resting there. The fine hairs on Ford’s nape shivered, each brush from a loosely curled fingertip like a hundred touches drawn over his skin.

Stan’s dick, hard against his belly, gave a hopeful lurch.

Ford grinned. “You’ve got a little something.”

“'Little’? Asshole, you better kiss my feelings better.”

Slowly, Ford wrapped one hand around the base of Stan’s dick, stopped, looked him in the eye, licked his lip – and then sucked him down sharply. Tongue hard and cheeks hollowed and slick wet, spit wet sucking, sliding down and breathing through his nose so he wouldn’t choke.

“Hell! Sixer. You could– you could warn a guy.”

Ford pulled back and pushed his tongue hard against Stan’s cockhead, dragged his lower lip against the vein just beneath and spoke against Stan’s dick: “Consider yourself warned,” and went right back down, hot insistent thirst and filthy urgency, sliding Stan’s dick into his throat like he was born for it.

“Oh, fuck _yes_.”

Ford slipped his left hand up to rub between Stan’s arsecheeks, push a finger against waiting muscle, just a little, just the tip, just enough to let Stan know what he wanted.

Stan grunted and reached and found the bottle and shoved the lube into Ford’s vision impatiently, and Ford would have laughed but he had a cock in his mouth so instead just took it, rolled it around his fingers until they were all slippery slick and opened up his brother one two careful three four, slowed down sucking dick until it was more like kissing, slow, tender.

Stan moaned, pushed back, drew his legs wider, begging with his body, _c'mon c'mon c'mon_ , as sweat dotted his chest, clinging and running together in streaks. Stan started to mutter Ford’s name like rosary beads, lips breaking and forming over the f and the d, the hand on the back of Ford’s neck gentle but the other was the tell, flexing and grabbing at nothing.

Ford’s felt a little drugged as he pulled back, pulled up and crawled over Stan, head bowed, cock dark with blood, and fitted himself to his brother like a puzzle piece.

Stan sighed like a prayer.

A wave of heat washed through Ford, and he moved. He sank deep and pulled back, head heavy, vision narrow. Stan’s hands were broad and solid on his back, urging him on, keeping him close, shoving up as Ford pushed down. Heat, mad dizzying heat. Ford couldn’t think, could barely breathe, found he could move and did, and did and clutched and chased and no thought, only sensation, only the feeling of his release coiling tighter in his belly, winding itself up and up and up until– until–

He came. The headrush left him blinking and hyper-sensitive, too sensitive to move like Stan needed and he tried to but, fuck _fuck_ he couldn’t. Stan was jerking himself franatically, desperate so Ford muttered, “Wait, wait,” and pulled out with a filthy sucking sound, and slid his hand home in its place.

Stan moaned, first a protest and then a praise as Ford rubbed and circled close inside him, _close, close, there, just there_ , biting his lip and thumbing the leaking slit on his own cock as his brother fisted him, wanton and open and unashamed. Stan opened his mouth to curse, and came over his hand and belly.

There followed the post-coital mutual slow-collapsing into the mattress.

“We should clean up.”

“Off you go.” Face buried in the pillow, Stan flopped an arm towards the bathroom.

A beat. “I didn’t mean just me.”

“We’re paying for laundry, ain’t we?”

“Sheet will be–” Ford gave a jaw cracking yawn, “stuck to us come morning.”

Stan sniggered. “Come morning.”

Ford snorted.

“An’ we’re payin’ f'r a sh'w'r,” Stan slurred.

Feeling that, in this case, protest was as good as action, especially when you didn’t want to, Ford gave in. “G'night,” he said and slung one arm over Stan.

Stan, already asleep, snored.

–


End file.
